


stars aligned

by kuro49



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Foursome - M/M/M/M, Multi, Robincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 01:37:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13494090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: If Robin has a relationship status with death, it would say: It’s complicated. (Good thing, their own is even more so.)





	stars aligned

**Author's Note:**

> straight into the sin bin I go.

 

Death has a way with the Robins. 

The grave stones on the grounds of Wayne Manor stand with their names engraved into the grey, the soil disturbed, their bodies six feet under but never really resting in any resemblance of peace. Death should be final but it isn't, not for them. 

If Robin has a relationship status with death, it would say: It’s complicated.

 

Jason Peter Todd dies and digs his own way out of his casket. Damian Wayne dies and the resurrection is a family affair.

Two down, two to go.

(If they really think about it, they are all past their expiration date by quite the long shot. Richard John Grayson should have died with his parents when the trapeze wires snapped. Timothy Drake should have— Perhaps, they have their stars aligned to be _lucky_ like that.)

 

They do not need to be kind to be good.

And Jason takes that to new extremes upon his return from his place in death.

He is not above doing his own dirty work so people like Dick and Tim doesn’t have to, so a kid like Damian doesn’t have to revert to getting this much blood on his hands again. In some sacrificial sense, Jason does what needs to be done, and even Batman has to admire how he sticks to his own motto: let the punishment fit the crime.

“Maybe things could be different, Bats.”

There are many confrontations like these that follow. Maybe things could be worse is what goes unsaid. Jason Todd is a reminder of Batman’s greatest failure and he both loves and loathes that fact.

After all, Jason’s Robin suit still hangs in the Cave like he means _something_.

 

He blinks open an eye, and there is a moment of panic when he cannot recall how much time has pass. The room is not pitch black but it is dark. Jason blinks and the dark becomes lines, blinks and the lines are the walls, blinks and the dark is taking shape, blinks and the shapes become bodies shifting in tandem to their breathing.

He recognizes this safe house as one of his own and something pulled taut inside of him eases.

“Morning,” he hears from the other side of the bed, and he is being particularly generous when he calls it a bed because it is really a too big mattress with lumpy springs left in the center of a very empty room.

Dick’s voice is rough with sleep and maybe hoarse too because Dick Grayson is mouthy on his own but with his uniform barely off, domino still on his face, fingers encased in black, Dick is not just loud but downright noisy with Damian buried inside of him, a flood of praises and pet names and sweet nothings each time the kid fills him to the brim. Even Tim loses his patience and keeps Dick in place with a hand in his hair, words turning into noises as he fucks Dick’s mouth, gentle even when he doesn’t have to be.

Jason recalls late last night, or is it really early this morning, with a fondness he’d never admit to for how raspy Dick sounds.

Maybe it is a little bit (a lot) messed up, how tangled they get with each other when they should be brothers in every sense of the word except blood even if there is just as much bad blood between each of them if not _more_.

 

Maybe Batman is to be blamed. Maybe he isn’t. Maybe it doesn’t matter one bit when there is enough blame to go around. There is also a fair share of resentment and betrayal.

“No hard feelings but let me tell you something, Little Wing.” The first Robin starts, his words tasting bitter as he looks at the boy using the name his mother gave _him_. Nightwing is a hero but he certainly doesn’t feel like one now. “This is a rite of passage, get used to it.”

It is the feeling of being replaced, abandoned, and left for the crows and the maggots to pick at.

Even invincibility doesn’t mean much when it still hurts this bad though.

(By the time Damian came into the picture, there is no room for any more of that bitterness. Dick will admit it took Jason dying to take a lot of the sting out of being replaced but Tim coming to him first before he learns of a third Robin helped too.)

 

“How’re you feeling?” Dick keeps going and Jason doesn’t need to see to know the man is stretching, languidly and indulgingly if the soft slow exhale that escapes is any indication.

Jason would give him a grunt in place of actual words because it is too early even if it is probably already late into the afternoon. With their lifestyle of vigilantism, they keep time very differently, but this still feels like he is being spoiled when he doesn’t get up to gather the trail of what remains of Red Hood from the floor.

“Either something rotten died in my mouth or I can still taste your cum in the back of my throat.”

“ _Gross_.” Damian interrupts their exchange sharply, peering up from the tangle that is Tim and him.

Dick laughs loudly at the blatant distaste from Damian. Jason grins something terrifying and that is the only warning Damian gets before Jason is turning him on to his back and leaning in to kiss him full on the mouth, morning breath and all.

The twist of Tim’s lips into the start of a smile is all the proof that Damian needs to know that he is not about to live down the shriek he lets out before that too is swallowed down by Jason’s kiss.

 

“This is an acceptable arrangement.”

He admits to them, just a few days shy of one year of _them_ and there is a certain amount of hesitance that comes before it. Damian won’t say it but he likes how he fits when he tips back to rest his head against the crook of Todd’s neck and he _fits_ irrevocably as he extends his fingers to wrap them around Drake's wrist where they are intertwined with Grayson's.

He has been taught from a young age that sentimentality doesn’t mean a damn thing except maybe a quick death if the sentiment is returned. But Damian also learns about family and every terrible deed done for the sake of just that.

Maybe it is codependency tangled up far too tightly to come undone at this point, or it is quite possibly love too if they are still comprehending that word like other people do. Regardless, here is a family to call his own and there is not a thing he would not do for them. 

 

His lip is split from a stupid little mistake he makes because Grayson has been terribly distracting all night during patrol. He pulls back not far enough and the fist that comes at him collides instead of misses. If he kisses too hard, and Todd does, they all do, it is like a bad little habit they can’t quite quit.

He feels his back flat against the mattress, Todd’s cheap linens against his skin.

Damian anticipates the flood of rust in his mouth before he actually tastes it, and the groan he lets out in answer is all the indication Jason needs to know that they are going to take an embarrassingly long time before all four of them are up and out of the bed for good.

Jason chases the taste of blood with his tongue like it is the same kind of thrill they get out there in the streets and gangs of Gotham. He thinks he can hear Dick talking to Tim so close beside them but Damian and him cannot hear a thing.

The black out curtains are still drawn, they have time even if late afternoon falls into early evening and if Jason is feeling spoiled, he can only wonder how Damian might feel like. They call him a kid even when he stands taller than both Dick and Tim. Only Jason stands a little bit taller. But lying on the bed, legs tangled together, bodies curled up one next to another, just close enough to wear down even that last bit of space between them, there is not a difference between any of them.

Damian has a tendency of getting carried away by the smell of blood in the air, Jason does not blame him. Dick and Tim might hide it better but nobody is out there in the dead of night jumping from roof tops to roof tops out of the sheer kindness in their hearts.

The four of them is a collection of bad blood, if it isn’t spilling here between the sheets, it’s got to be spilled elsewhere.

Being together, like this, is an easy way of wiping the slate clean.

 

They are the one thing in Tim’s life that has no contingency for.

And it terrifies him every time he thinks about it because it always feels a little like Russian Roulette where the game doesn't get to end and the pistol is passed from one to another like the mantle of Robin. 

“Don’t go.” He does not say even when he is the first to go his separate way (for now because the fact remains that he will always end up back here in Gotham when she comes calling, they all would but he needs to find Bruce before he is lost for good).

They have been under his skin long before Tim ever crossed those few short steps to press his mouth to Dick to Jason to Damian and back and back and back until his fingers are digging into the hem of Jason’s tee, his nails are dragging through Damian’s hair, and Dick is pressed all along his back, heat in each nip to the nape of Tim’s neck that very first time.

They are domino pieces just waiting to fall, one on top of the other until they are all down on the ground.

They are at the cusp of the first wavering tilt until the grappling hooks snag in deep.

 

“Good morning to you, Timmy.”

Dick says in turn, and he has a feeling Red Robin would be rolling his eyes if he had bothered with opening them to start with even if he neatly dodges the swing of one of Damian’s hands before Jason catches both wrists and pins them to the mattress, still kissing him without pause.

“It’s almost four in the afternoon, Dick.”

His correction is soft, softer than he has any right to be given the show of strength last night when he dragged his teeth across their skin, tongue mapping their pulse from Dick’s neck to the turn of Damian’s wrists and the inside of Jason’s thighs. Tim Drake’s fingertips digging hard enough to leave behind bruises in the shape of his hands like he is taking them for himself.

(Dick’s answering keen is a reassurance to be claimed, Damian’s sharp inhale is his willingness to be kept, and Jason’s contented sigh is his reconciliation that they are what he gets to _have_.)

“All the more reason why it’s good.”

Here, there is more than enough good in the world for them to do what they do, death be damned, blood on their hands or otherwise.

 


End file.
